


It's A Difficult Burden to Bear

by brevitas



Series: Not the Face! [2]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: M/M, Modern AU, superhero au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-17
Updated: 2013-04-17
Packaged: 2017-12-08 17:44:59
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,279
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/764189
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brevitas/pseuds/brevitas
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Grantaire wakes up and meets some of Les Amis; an innocent poet who goes by Nightshade and a brilliant telepath called Cerebrum.</p>
            </blockquote>





	It's A Difficult Burden to Bear

"I don't understand why you brought him home." Combeferre frowns at Enjolras across the table, and ignores the body sprawled out between them. "It seems a bit crude."

"He didn't have an ID," Enjolras answers, "And I think he may have been foreign."

Combeferre arches an eyebrow and Enjolras sighs; his best friend need not say anything at all to dredge the truth out of him, even in situations like this.

"He saved me, Combeferre, for no reason apart from being a compassionate person. I could not leave him in that alleyway in good consciousness. We both know the police would have tagged him and buried him in a cheap John Doe gravesite, and I think he deserves better than that."

Combeferre can tell from Enjolras' tone that there will be no talking him out of this. He sighs and folds his arms across his chest, glancing down at the body again. "So what are we going to do?" He asks calmly, and Enjolras smiles at him.

"I only need a few hours to figure something out," he says decisively. "I suppose he can stay here until then."

Combeferre eyes the body but doesn't argue. This is Enjolras' house, after all, even if all of Les Amis live here. "Fine," he says, and walks around the table to head into the kitchen. "Would you like something to eat in the meantime?"

+++++

When Grantaire wakes up, he's warm, and immediately he distrusts this. (And for good reason--the last time he woke up hot he'd been about to be incinerated.)

His lungs kick in before his hearing does and he struggles to be quiet as he instinctively takes his first breath, gasping at the sensation of air. His heart stutters and begins to beat; systematically his body wakes up and everything else starts working, his stomach grumbling as it recognizes it's emptiness, his muscles tensing and releasing to check for proper response.

Sound filters in and his eyes flutter open and he's staring up at a ceiling painted a fine honey gold. He scrutinizes it because as far as he knows funeral parlors don't often paint using such gaudy hues, and while he's debating whether it's possible or not he hears someone say, sounding panicked, "Uh, guys? I think the body's moving."

He groans and tries to sit up, feeling absolutely exhausted. He must have only been out for a few hours; healing from something such as willingly giving his life only takes as long as it does to replenish his lifeforce, and considering the fact that he's practically oozing it, he's guessing two or three have passed at the most.

Someone runs from the room and he doesn't react quickly enough to see them, only hearing the distant patter of their feet slapping the floor as they sprint through the hallway. He tests his hands and his feet as he comes back to himself, hating the intial feeling of ressurection. It's always strange, to go from complete darkness to a body that doesn't feel as though it fits quite right.

"Tithonus?" Comes a voice from the doorway and he slowly turns his head, knowing full well that if he moves too quickly he'll dry-heave.

"Yes?"

It's not Apollo standing in the doorway, nor anybody he's familiar with at all. That startles him; he was expecting the red-and-gold superhero, and it only occurs to him now that if he can meet a stranger here than there are no doubt others (and that's bad news--Grantaire isn't wearing a mask).

"Who are you?" He asks.

"Nightshade." The man answers with an adorable smile.

He's slender and petite, garbed in a costume that is all dark purple and black and fits his body like paint. His hood leaves the bottom half of his face uncovered and enhances the ridiculous shade of his lavender eyes, the hue so pale they're almost as clear as a window pane. The little bits of skin Grantaire can see are pallid and freckled and he notices that he's cradling a sleeping hedgehog in his hands.

He lifts an eyebrow and wonders if this hero knows that the nightshade plant is poisonous or if it was an accident. Admittedly it's as pretty as any other flower but its beauty is entrancing in a dangerous way, like the glint of a big cat's hungry eyes.

"Nightshade," he echoes thoughtlessly, eyeing the kid and trying to decide if it was purposeful or not. He looks about as threatening as his dozing hedgehog. "Can you tell me where I am?"

"Oh." He smiles again and tilts his head and Grantaire thinks, _Nah. He must've just picked Nightshade 'cause the blossoms are purple and the berries are shiny_. "You're in Les Amis' house."

"Ah," he says dryly, looking around. "Awesome. And where is the man of the hour?"

"Out." Nightshade is watching him curiously, his lavender eyes narrowed in concentration. "We, uh, thought you were dead."

Grantaire shrugs and cracks his neck. "I was," he says unhelpfully. Tentatively he scoots to the edge of the table and puts his feet on the floor, testing his weight before he slides to a stand. He wobbles but doesn't fall, and Nightshade watches him the entire time.

"Are you a superhero too?" He asks once Grantaire has found his footing and is warily leaning from side to side, bending his knees. "Cause we don't see a lot of immortals."

He laughs bitterly and says, "No, kid, I'm not." Nightshade continues staring at him but he does not ask again.

"So am I allowed to leave?" He asks after a minute, glancing around the room. He's apparently been put in what serves as the kitchen and the dining room, a thin bar separating the appliances from the table, and apart from him and Nightshade it's deserted.

Nightshade cocks his head like he's listening to something Grantaire can't hear and the hedgehog yawns, stretching across the swell of his palm before resettling. "You saw Apollo's face," he says suddenly, focusing on Grantaire again. "He needs to talk to you before you can leave."

Grantaire thins his lips. "You said he was gone," he points out, and Nightshade laughs (no, that's definitely more of a giggle than a laugh--Grantaire absolutely cannot believe that someone this cute goes by the name of Nightshade).

"He is," he says, smiling, and Grantaire groans.

"Okay," he acquises. "But if I'm expected to stick around for that long I'm going to need some alcohol."

Nightshade scrutinizes him with a great degree of interest, smiling again. "Is that some sort of fuel for your ressurection?" He asks curiously.

Grantaire snorts until he realizes Nightshade is being genuine, and then laughs. "Yeah. So get me some hard liquor, stat."

He giggles and says, "Stay here," and trots out. Grantaire patiently idles for five minutes and when he's satisfied that Nightshade is a good distance away, inches to the door. The hallway is empty and turns sharply in a corner to his left so he goes that way first, breathing very quietly so as to hear better.

There's the distant clicking of a keyboard and he stops abruptly, sidles a few steps back. A room is only a few feet in front of him to the right and its door is open; he can only assume that this is where the sound is originating from, and knows better than to try and sneak past it.

 _If you're trying to escape, you're going the wrong way_.

Grantaire flinches, looking wildly around, but the voice has no source; he thinks _telepath_ at the same moment that a warm chuckle floats out of the room.

 _That's correct_ , he says (or perhaps more accurately _thinks_ , since it's resounding inside Grantaire's skull and nowhere else). _And you're Tithonus_.

He licks his lips and tries to get a grip on having a conversation inside his head but it's disorienting; the last time he worked with a telepath he had absolutely depised the woman, and never allowed her inside. Very slowly he thinks, _Can we talk face-to-face maybe? This is fucking weird_.

There's that amused chuckle again and then the squeak of a chair being pushed back; a young man appears in the doorway not a moment later, his arms crossed across his chest. He looks friendly and has a pair of glasses perched on his nose, over which he surveys Grantaire.

"I'm Cerebrum," he introduces politely, though he does not offer a hand. Grantaire realizes Nightshade didn't either, and wonders if maybe they have a thing about not touching each other around here.

"It's not that," Cerebrum says smoothly, drawing his attention. "I merely did not think you wished to shake my hand lest I'm hiding stronger powers and try to kill you."

He frowns at him and the intellectual laughs, says, "Sorry, sorry, I'll stop that."

There's a moment of silence between them, in which Grantaire tries not to think too loudly and Cerebrum watches him. The intensity behind his look reminds Grantaire of being under a microscope; he fidgets.

"So I just have one question for you, Cerebrum," Grantaire says suddenly, looking him purposefully up and down. "Is this like a group that only accepts hot men?"

Cerebrum blinks owlishly at him and then blushes, scratching at his forearm. He's wearing a costume with sleeves that only reach his elbows, and leave the rest of his arm bare. Unlike Nightshade's his is more glamorous, and is adorned with slender strands of pale blue lights stitched along the joints. For the most part they're dim, but when he flexes the lights chase the motions of his muscles. It's rather distracting and fits his body like a glove, so Grantaire thinks that he has all the right in the world to ask such a question.

"No," he says awkwardly. "Our only requirement is the desire to fight crime."

Grantaire tries not to look too cynical when he nods seriously, though he does spare a moment to consider that everyone in this group is really legitimate about doing justice. Usually he meets superheroes who are in it for the fame and the money; it's not often he comes across genuine heroes who happened to be gifted with superpowers.

"Why were you trying to leave earlier?" He asks, and Grantaire purses his mouth.

"Maybe because you guys have no fucking alcohol in this house, and everybody is running around in costumes telling me their hero names and it's making me feel outed? I'm practically naked. I mean, look at you even, with your pretty lights and shit."

Cerebrum blinks at him again (it seems all Grantaire does is surprise him) but then says, "My real name is Combeferre. Pleasure to meet you."

He holds out a hand this time and Grantaire grins incredulously but shakes it. "Grantaire," he replies. "But don't tell anyone. Tithonus sounds a lot cooler."

Combeferre laughs and shakes his head. "Nightshade is looking for you," he remarks casually, like he could hear him shouting for Tithonus down the halls. "May I let him know you're here?"

"Sure," he answers with a shrug. "Hey, tell me something; did he mean to pick the name Nightshade? I mean, I know it's a pretty plant and all but it's really poisonous, isn't it?"

Combeferre smiles at him but this one is not like the others; there's a degree of pride behind it, and true affection. "I don't believe it is my story to tell," he says, "But yes, he meant to pick it."

Nightshade flounces in behind them, not even looking slightly ruffled that he couldn't find Grantaire. Apparently he figured his comrades would help keep an eye on him, and Grantaire can't help but admire that--it isn't often he finds groups that actually like one another, let alone work well together.

"Combeferre tells me you like knowing real names," he says with a smile. "I'm Jehan, and this is Hemlock." His hedgehog, Hemlock, is awake now, riding on his shoulder and clinging to the sheer material of his suit.

He doesn't offer a hand--Grantaire glances at Combeferre, who shakes his head just slightly. He quirks an eyebrow but doesn't ask, and turns back to Jehan. "Grantaire."

"Apollo should be back soon," he tells him with a smile, and Combeferre remarks, "He's home now." Grantaire gives him a wary glance (he just can't find it in him to trust telepaths, dammit, not after firsthand experience with one who ripped his mind apart simply in curiosity).

But he's not wrong, and a moment later a door bangs open somewhere, emitting the sound of hearty laughter and footsteps. Grantaire crosses his arms across his chest and watches the doorway as Apollo comes in, chuckling, with two men at his heels. All three of them stop when they see Grantaire, and the laughter disappears.

"Whoa," a tall curly-haired kid says, delighted. "You're _alive_?"

Apollo frowns a bit. Grantaire thinks immediately that this man must be a stickler for the rules, which is probably why he's so upset Grantaire saw his face. He sighs because he has the feeling of impending doom; talking his way out of here is not going to be pretty.

While he's waiting for the hero to speak he realizes that there's new texture on his suit that looks suspiciously like brain matter, and looks over his companions; one is wiping blood off a shield he carries at his forearm, and the other is methodically picking (are those pieces of _flesh_? What the fuck) _things_ out of his thick hair.

Apollo says, "We need to talk."

Grantaire snaps his gaze back to him and snorts. "I thought you'd say that."

**Author's Note:**

> second update for the day I'm hella good. if you're excited praise Imogen as s/he requested I update this series.
> 
> title comes from a song called Graveyards by Lucy Schwartz that I'm rather fond of and it reminds me of Grantaire, especially in this verse.
> 
> uh nothing much more to say, I don't believe. I think I made it clear who everybody is but feel free to ask if something is muddled.
> 
> tumblr is idfaciendumest, follow/talk/stalk if you want, I love company! c:


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